


Faith

by archeolatry



Series: Three Things Remain [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Castiel Whump, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Chuck Ships It, Chuck is God, Chuck is Kind of A Dick, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Gen, Human Castiel, M/M, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 23:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: "Right now three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." -- 1 Corinthians 13:13Chuck gives Castiel a choice to make.______“It's the irony of Free Will, Castiel,” Chuck said with a half-shrug. “Everything comes at a price.”Castiel fixed his gaze to Dean, whose heart he could hear from six feet away; it was beating a steady tattoo inside his chest. The tears were now spilling from his eyes. Dean had forgotten how to breathe.





	Faith

**Mt. Zion, Kansas**

It was more than a case. It was a trial. An epic. A test of heroes.

In the end, it was Sam who found the words. It was Dean who held the Rod of Aaron; whom the angels spoke through, begging permission to be set amongst mankind. And it was through the grace of Chuck that they fell, like flaming comets against a darkened sky, across the four corners of the earth. It was also no coincidence that Castiel was willed to the very spot where the rod was planted, now a new, green almond tree rooted in the soil. The only tree in a ruined field of wheat. 

His manifestation surprised the brothers. Sam blinked his amazement with his name upon his lips. “Cas?”

Dean—breathless but alive—only stared at Castiel through weary, glazed eyes.

The wind blew gently, rippling through the remaining wheat.

“I suppose I have you to thank for this.”

Castiel whirled around to see Chuck, His arms folded over his chest, resplendent in His divine hoodie and holey jeans.

He had no word for this man—this manifestation. When in this form he could not bring himself to call Him Chuck; yet he could not find the devotion in his heart to call Him Father. Instead, he merely offered his honest answer.

“No. Those angels made their own choice.” His tongue was thick in his mouth, now that he was on the mortal plane. “They exercised their free will.”

“And is that what you taught them, when you returned to Heaven?”

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “I didn't force any idea upon them that they did not harbor. I provided counsel, and each made their decision on their own.” He met eyes with Chuck. “They did not need to be told, only shown the way.” 

“They did not need to be told,” Chuck parroted, “only shown the way.” A laugh rippled through His slim frame. “Oh, Castiel...”

The blithe, carefree look on Chuck’s face clenched all their stomachs; they braced for divine wrath.

“They did not need to be told, only shown the way,” Chuck repeated, ruminating on the words. “That’s... You know, if I tried to boil down the reason I left into one sentence, that would be it?” He smacked his palm to His forehead. “Man, I wrote how many of those me-damn _Supernatural_ books and I couldn’t come up with one good theme for the whole of my creation? And it just _falls_ out of your mouth.” Chuck stroked His beard. “Do you mind if I use that line?”

A shared, incredulous look glanced from brother to brother, to angel, and back again. Castiel shook his head No. 

“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite.” Castiel’s heart fell into his gut. “You _get_ it.”

Castiel’s mouth was suddenly stuffed with cotton, with a brain to match. “Excuse me?”

“Humanity. You _get_ it. The double-edged sword of love. That all the really delicious food is terrible for you. The irony of free will—the apple, the garden, the _whole thing_.” Chuck huffed softly. “So many incorrect interpretations...Raphael, Naomi, Metatron... Man, if I had just given you the reins I could have saved myself a lot of hassle.”

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Dean growled. Cas and Sam’s eyebrows shot up in tandem.

“Yeah, I know,” Chuck sighed. “But I’m here to make amends.” He stepped forward, His Converse crunching on the stalks of fallen wheat underneath. “Castiel. You are, without doubt, one of my finest creations. You have learned from every mistake. You have...” He searched for the words, “grown a capacity for forgiveness that even amazes me. And yet I see in your heart that you are humble.” He reached out to touch Castiel’s left shoulder. “Come back with me. Be my second in command, as Raphael was before you.”

“An archangel?” he whispered. 

A small, mewling sound came from Dean. “Cas?”

Chuck ignored him. “I could use someone like you, Castiel. Someone who has seen the world I’ve made from every angle. Someone who loves humanity as I do.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Sam muttered under his breath. 

Castiel gazed at Chuck, eyes squinted, mouth agape. “But what would I do?”

“Answer prayers. Perform miracles. Heck, you can pop up on burnt tortillas and tree stumps if that’s your thing.” He shrugged a divine shrug. “I realize that I haven’t been the Father I could have— _should_ have been. I’d like to fix that.” Chuck clapped Castiel on the forearm. “Think of it as **our** family business.” 

A petulant little groan came from Dean’s direction.

Castiel cocked an eyebrow; tilted his head. “So...together we’ll rule the galaxy as Father and son?”

Sam huffed his amusement. Castiel making an _Empire Strikes Back_ reference. He was more human than he gave himself credit for. 

“Exactly! But no lightsabers. The world isn’t ready for those yet.”

Castiel glanced at Sam, but stared at Dean, whose green eyes were wide and wet.

He turned to face Chuck again. “In a case like this, I believe, I am supposed to express my thanks, and to acknowledge that I serve at your will.” He hung his head defeatedly, eyes clenched, choking back his urge to weep. “Use me but as your instrument. I shall oblige.” 

From behind him, Castiel could feel Dean’s heart shattering. Sam was biting hard at the inside of his cheek.

“Or...” Chuck began again. 

All three heads shot up to face Him.

“Or?” Dean whimpered.

“Or you could go home,” Chuck said indifferently. “Go back to your chosen family. To the man you love. Maybe go see the Grand Canyon.” His eyes lit up. “Oh, and have some deep-fried Oreos! Those things are _amazing_. You humans...” He laughed in the direction of Sam and Dean, who failed to see any humor. “I give you fire and you use it to deep fry everything. Oh, Me...” 

Castiel dragged Chuck back to the conversation. “You’re offering me humanity?”

“That’s right. The chance to live a normal, happy, _mortal_ life, if you so choose. I’ll even throw in a human soul.” He looked down His nose at Castiel. “But if you choose humanity, you will never be allowed back into the Host of Heaven.” 

Cas’ eyes grew wide. 

“The irony of Free Will, Castiel,” He said with a half-shrug. “Everything comes at a price.”

He cast his gaze again to Dean, whose heart he could hear from six feet away; it was beating a steady tattoo inside his chest. The tears were now spilling from his eyes. Dean had forgotten how to breathe. 

Cas turned to face Chuck. “Would...would I be fallen, like Lucifer?”

“Naah,” Chuck replied. “Think of it as an Honorable Discharge after millennia of service. Although,” He added, with a jaunt of His eyebrows, “you’ll have to turn in your badge and gun.”

Cas palmed the heft of the angel blade up his sleeve. Surrendering the blade itself was easy, but the loss of that power—that _purpose_...

He had been, at times, a ‘good’ angel. Did as he was told, answered prayers when he could. But with no grace, no angel radio, no ‘mojo’ (as Dean called it)...could he be a good human? Would he know how? 

“Is there any guarantee I’ll be sent to Heaven” —the words sounded strange in his mouth even as he said them— “when I die?”

Chuck shook His head. “I can’t tell you that, Castiel. Part of being human not knowing how the story ends.” A coy smile tugged at the corner of His mouth. “All I can do is put in a good word with Saint Peter.” 

A sigh racked Castiel’s entire body. He looked at Chuck. God. He Who Must Be Obeyed. The distant father he’d never known made flesh and blood before him. He who had put his pieces back together so many times he couldn’t tell if it was reward or punishment. 

And Dean. Dean, whose tears were now rolling down his cheeks. Dean, whose raw humanity made him care more about mankind than he had in thousands and thousands of years. The Great Wall of China, the Magna Carta, sending men to the moon...? All party tricks in comparison to Dean Winchester. 

Could he survive as a human again? What if he put himself in harm’s way and Dean could not protect him? What if his own mortal body was lost? To cancer, or in a car wreck? He had brought so much toil and travail upon Dean already... But which would hurt more: to risk loving Dean and being lost, or to lose him for all time? 

Chuck’s voice cut through his reverie. “Castiel...?”

He pointed at Dean, his hand trembling. “Him.” Cas’ own eyes were watering. “I choose him.”

A deep, pained breath shuddered through Dean. He scrambled foot over foot to close the space between them. And before Cas could speak a single word, Dean cupped his face in both hands and kissed him.

It was gentler than Cas would have thought; so strong was the longing in Dean’s heart that he was half-expecting to be knocked over. It was striking only in the purity of its joy. Castiel found himself reciprocating: pushing back against Dean’s mouth, nudging it open, meeting tongue to tongue in an unabashed display of need. Every movement, every touch, was holy.

When they pulled away for air, Castiel had found that his hands had migrated to Dean’s waist. They rested on his hipbones comfortably. Dean’s hand had found the nape of Cas’ neck, stroking the soft, fine hairs there. Foreheads pressed together, they exchanged heavy breaths.

“I _will_ age, Dean. I—”

“I don’t care.”

“I will have no celestial power. I can’t help you or heal you.”

“I don’t care,” he repeated, his voice thin and quaking. “Just as long as you never leave me again.” His lips brushed Cas’ softly. Lovingly.

Cas glanced over his shoulder at Sam, whose mouth was parted in awe, but whose eyes were bright with gladness; whose soul was brimming with contentment. And at Chuck, who was smiling beatifically. 

“I’ve known all along, Castiel,” He said wistfully. “I just needed to hear you say it.” He nodded at Dean, whose tears rolled hotly down his cheeks. “I think he did, too.”

Chuck raised a hand, and, with an air of finality, snapped His fingers. Castiel crumpled in Dean’s arms. 

Dean struggled to support the sudden dead weight, helping Castiel onto his knees as his legs gave out. “Cas!?” He glared at Chuck with daggers in his eyes. “You son of a...” 

Dean was set to rush Chuck when Castiel let out a sudden cry. A set of wings sprouted from Castiel’s back, tearing the trench coat to ribbons. They unfurled themselves as if they were living things, independent of the being beneath them.

Dean had expected Cas’ wings to be white, like an angel’s wings were ‘supposed to' be. Instead, the wings that spread grandly away from him were raven black. Each must have been ten feet from end to end. Dean felt the cool of the tears on his cheek as they flapped, making the familiar _whup-whuff_ sound he had heard a thousand times. 

Castiel’s head shot back violently enough to cause whiplash. Dean stumbled backward in fear and confusion—white light radiated from Cas’ eyes and mouth. A fresh set of tears burst forth, and from the depths of his soul came a howl of anguish: “CAS!!”

A long column of light descended from the sky, as if reaching down to join Castiel’s own. His body began to drift off the ground, like a balloon pulling at its tether in a wind. He was otherwise motionless, his hands spread to his sides, his mouth still gaping—still emanating that white light.

(Dean would later describe the whole ordeal as ‘some real _X-Files_ shit’. At that moment, he was too overwhelmed to think.) 

Though it was blinding, Dean could not look away from the light. Cas’ wings shone now—they were not merely black, but swirling with color like oil slick, limned in deep jewel shades of sapphire, amethyst, and emerald. Then, almost as swiftly as they appeared, they began to fade; to become one with the light. To simply scatter in the updraft like a million dandelion seeds, until there was nothing left.

It was then that Cas started to glow.

Ice-blue tendrils of light could be seen winding through his arteries, making him luminescent beneath his clothes. Each fingertip was a beacon, each vein a long highway seen from the air. He was light, through and through.

It snaked through him, following the pulmonary paths and settling into Castiel’s chest—no, his **heart** —which beat visibly under his flesh. One beat, two beats, three beats before fading. Settling. 

The light—the all-knowing, benevolent light—dimmed until it was little more than a street lamp. But the light set Castiel down gently on his feet, leaving him to teeter back into Dean’s arms.

Dean gathered him close, loose limbs and rumpled coat and all. It wasn’t until the fabric brushed his face that he realized how ugly and snottily he had cried; it stuck to his face as he buried it in Cas’ neck. Cas was no longer dead weight, but he was silent and still. The light was gone.

He wound an arm around Cas’ back, bracing him underneath his shoulders. Shifting the coat away from his Castiel’s chest, Dean placed a hand over the former angel’s heart, right where he had seen the glow. At first, there was nothing under his fingertips. He mashed his palm to the spot, hoping to feel something—anything. 

_There._ Under his palm, he felt it. Weak, yes, but unmistakably there. Dean trembled in relief.

It grew palpably stronger under his touch. 

Dean gathered Castiel’s shirt in a handful, pressing him closer, until Castiel’s head fell against his shoulder. And, in what was no small miracle, Dean felt the gentle fall of breath on his neck. 

Castiel stumbled to gain footing, as if he had woken from a standing sleep.

“I got you, Cas.” Dean’s voice was sandpaper. “I got you.”

Castiel’s legs were his own again, and his arms found their strength once more. His hands curled around the length of Dean’s forearms. With his joints only more solid than gelatin, he took a half-step back. 

Cas could remember the first time he saw Dean’s face. Not his soul, but his true face—freckles, stubble, scars. There were crow’s feet now, and laugh lines. But Cas could still see into his soul, simply by looking deep into those green eyes.

“Hello, Dean.” 

Castiel looked older, somehow, than he did just moments before. There were bags under his eyes, and his usual five-’o-clock-shadow had taken on a tinge of grey. But he was still real; still in Dean’s arms.

Dean smiled wanly, trying his best to not cry again. He held out his hands, pressing Castiel’s into his, interlocking their fingers together. 

“Let’s go home, Cas.”


End file.
